Until She Wakes
by Ista
Summary: Grace is hurt after the incident at Billy Kimber's place. Tommy Shelby feels responsible and stays by her side until she is well. Lots of hurt Grace, comforting/guilty/exhausted Tommy, and comforting Arthur and John. Two-part fic.
1. Chapter 1

**Until She Wakes**

 **Summary:** Grace is hurt after the incident at Billy Kimber's place. Tommy Shelby feels responsible and stays by her side until she is well. Lots of hurt Grace, comforting/guilty/exhausted Tommy, and comforting Arthur and John.

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own anything related to _Peaky Blinders._ Darn.

 **Warning:** Attempted rape.

 **A/N:** This is my first _Peaky Blinders_ story _._ Just started watching the show a few weeks ago, and I'm in awe of it. Just—all of it! Wanted to write this two-part fic to play out my desire to see Tommy showing more concern for Grace, as well as for John and Arthur to take care of Tommy. Forgive me if I mess up Birmingham/British slang. Not a part of the world I'm very familiar with.

 **Chapter 1**

At first, Grace only felt pain, and then with the pain came the shock and humiliation as she frantically reached for her purse and the gun inside.

She kept thinking: _Is this really happening to me?_

Because it didn't seem real. The way her head grazed the corner of the billiards table. The warm trickle that began to cascade down the left side of her face. The way the soft red fabric of her dress mirrored her blood. The rush as Kimber pushed it up, past her knees, exposing the even silkier white slip beneath. The mad shuffle and gasping wheeze of his whiskey-breath as he splayed her left hand out, reaching, reaching for the gun just beyond her grasp.

 _It's going to happen. This man is going to rape me._

Grace had always heard of the cliché: when life passes before one's eyes in a stressful moment. But for Grace it wasn't her entire life—just one memory of lying in bed while her father tucked her in and sang a song in his sweet tenor voice, an Irish song, a romantic ballad.

When she heard Tommy's call, Grace knew it was over. Jerking back to reality, she shoved the gun in her purse, collecting herself, pushing wisps of blonde hair out of her face, lowering the ruffles of her dress back to the ground, and getting as far away from Billy Kimber as possible.

Shelby's excuse stung at first, another blow against her womanhood, but Grace swallowed her humiliation. She wasn't an operative for nothing. Who was playing whom here? Feelings were reserved for true relationships, not whatever she had with Thomas Shelby. Right?

So Grace forced her lips to stop quivering and looked the servants in the eye as she was hurriedly ushered out. She stalked ahead of Shelby, part of her angry that he had forced her into this position in the first place, embarrassing her to boot, and part of her amazed that he had intervened at all.

Mostly, she was amazed.

A dutiful (if sympathetic) maid pressed a clean cloth into her hands, and Grace used it to stem the bleeding along her temple. She was surprised at how much it blotted the white swathe, but the wound was aching steadily now, a migraine that pulsed with every heartbeat through her forehead. All at once, Grace wished she could be miles away, back in the comfort of her parents' care. Her face burned as she ran through the beautiful house and outside. Already, the sky had begun to darken, clouds looming from the west that bode rain.

Tommy's car was parked where he had last dropped her off, and Grace got in. Shelby was close on her heels, but she didn't acknowledge him when the driver side door clicked open and slammed shut after her.

She held the cloth to her head, forcing her body not to tremble, feeling gooseflesh raise along her arms, her legs, every place where Kimber had touched her, like the kiss of scalding ice on her skin. The engine revved, and Shelby sped away.

 _Not the get-away you were anticipating,_ she thought cheerlessly. Grace stole a quick glance at Thomas, grimacing at the jolt of pain that shot through her head with the movement.

"D-didn't think you cared," she said, not able to hold back her emotion and stop the words from tumbling out semi-coherently. In that moment, she wasn't acting, and she wasn't an Agent of the Crown. Grace couldn't deny her feelings for the one man she felt so connected to, the man through work she had become obsessed with, the one man she couldn't figure out.

As always, Tommy's expression was unreadable. His lips pursed together, brilliant blue eyes like flawless gemstones searching far away, past the road they were driving on, beyond the countryside into the future… Or was it the past?

"But then you changed your mind." Grace said. Her breath caught in her chest, sending a thrill of dizziness through her body.

The most dangerous man in Birmingham didn't answer, and she didn't expect him to. Somewhere, in the back of her mind, Grace was aware that the wound in her head was still bleeding, and that wasn't a good sign, but she didn't care. A numbness seeped in that took over from her shins to the tips of her fingers.

"Why did you change your mind, Thomas?" she whispered.

Whether he answered or not, Grace was not aware as she slipped into darkness.

One thought lingered in her mind as it spiraled out: _Maybe Mr. Shelby has a heart._

* * *

Thomas Shelby grit his teeth and felt his fingernails dig into the steering wheel. Damn fool he was to go back in and interrupt Kimber, but another voice in his head assured him that he had done the right thing. Could his common sense be abandoning him? Did he actually care for this woman?

Her voice seemed far away, but Tommy was too angry at himself and too lost in thought to reply. He should never have put Grace in that position, and he had almost lost her forever.

"I'll take you back to The Garrison," he said, chewing on his lips, thoughts flickering from one possibility to the next. Last scrape averted. Aside from this near catastrophe, the day had gone quite smoothly.

But something remained amiss. Grace did not respond.

"Grace…" he began, glancing at her.

What he saw almost made Thomas Shelby, with notoriously iron nerves, run off the road into the shrubbery.

Grace's head lolled back against the seat, and she was slumped forward. A bloodied handkerchief dangled in her lap, and he saw the tracks of blood as it dripped down the left side of her face, turned away from him, matching the vibrant color of her dress, staining it with gore.

"Grace?"

When she didn't respond, he tossed his cigarette out the window and shook her shoulder roughly.

"Grace!"

His heart skipped beats in twos and triplets as he divided his attention between the road and the unconscious woman beside him. Thomas wasn't a doctor, but he knew she needed care that he couldn't provide, and she needed it quickly.

Gauging the distance as less than five miles, Thomas Shelby stepped on the gas pedal, and, for the first time since he was a child, said a silent and desperate prayer.

* * *

Polly Gray was looking over the books at headquarters when he breezed in, like some time-swept knight from an Arthurian legend, carrying a woman in his arms.

"Tommy?" She stood up quickly, blinking back astonishment at the unfamiliar sight. Behind her were curious eyes from Scudboat, Finn, and the other betting boys peeking in through the open double doors. The shop had gone unseasonably quiet.

"Fetch a doctor," Tommy said calmly, as if he had asked Polly for a cup of tea, but when Polly locked eyes with him, she could spy their desperation.

She only wasted ten seconds before her consummate professionalism kicked in.

"All right, you lot!" she howled at the layabouts. "You heard 'im. Dr. Price on the double. And then get back to work!"

The men immediately resumed their various tasks, and Polly caught Finn by the shoulder before he scattered with the rest.

"Cloth and hot water, son. On the double."

Soberly, Finn nodded his head and raced to the washroom.

Polly then turned her attention to the matter at hand. She recognized the girl now—an Irish barmaid at The Garrison. But this girl was dressed in a grand crimson affair—silk spilling down her side, mingling with blood. The way Tommy was carrying her—no— _cradling_ her, showed that he was cognizant of her modesty, thus her pale skin only shone slightly above her ankles.

His aunt gestured to place her on the sofa, which he did more gently than when he was working with one of his horses. Polly closed the double doors on the workmen so they could have some privacy. Tommy tilted Grace's head so Polly could get a better look. She winced when she saw the gash—nearly two inches and ugly along her left temple. Bits of hair and skin had torn off, and the color of red was a flowing constant.

She was about to yell for Finn when the boy scooted up to her, bearing rags and a pail of warm water.

"Good lad. Run along then."

Finn nodded, eyes wide, and scampered away.

Thomas stood beside Polly, unmoving, and though his aunt didn't look at him, she could feel the force of his gaze, seeing through the back of her head to reach the young woman's face. Polly went to work without a pause, knowing the doctor would stitch her up when he arrived, but she washed the blood away, pressing a cloth to her head to quell the bleeding.

"Should I bother asking what happened?" Polly asked.

A pause, then from behind her: "There was an accident."

Polly didn't pry any further, but did she hear a bit of guilt in his tone? Thomas must know she wasn't accusing him—goodness knows their mother raised the Shelby boys better than to strike a woman, but something had happened after the races… Something to do with Billy Kimber…

"Probably just fainted, poor dear," said Polly. "Doc will fix 'er up."

As she bent over to brush a strand of hair from Grace's face, the young woman shifted slightly and moaned.

"There now," Polly said with a deep breath. "That's a good sign."

"Grace?"

Polly turned in surprise at his outburst, and when her eyes found his, they were lost in hope and—could it be?—anguish.

A knock on the door and Scudboat announced the doctor had arrived. Price came striding through, a giant Welshman with a pleasant bedside manner and a robust appetite. Polly had paid for many of his visits with a ham dinner and bottle of gin. She soundlessly ushered Thomas out of the room as the doctor entered.

After the examination, Pol opened the double doors to find Tommy exactly where she had placed him, his back to her, hands clasped tightly together in front of him. The bustle of the workroom had diminished as it approached five o'clock, but it was partially so quiet because the men kept sneaking glances at their boss. They had never seen Mr. Shelby so pensive before.

Polly led Tommy back inside, rubbing his shoulder reassuringly.

"Everything's all right," she assured him. Dr. Price corroborated enthusiastically.

"Right as rain by tomorrow, sir. I found no concussion. The young lady just needs nourishment and rest, and she will be fine. Mind you, she may not wake for several hours.

"Thank you, sir," Thomas said, as stoic as ever, but she heard the relief in his voice. "My aunt will make sure you are well paid for the inconvenience."

"Never an inconvenience to serve the Shelby family," Price said with a tip of his cap. "My pleasure, sir."

Polly showed the doctor out and made sure he would be situated at The Garrison, where he got his pick of the menu. Then she hurried back to headquarters; many of the men were packing up for the day. Arthur and John were out having a drink to celebrate the Kimber deal and would not be back for several hours, Polly imagined. It was rare to have Tommy at home, so to speak, this early in the evening.

She opened the door to the back room a creak or two and spied him with curiosity. He had pulled up a chair and was sitting beside Grace, who was bundled up in a blanket. Polly could just barely notice the gentle rise and fall of her chest as she breathed in and out. The side of her head was stitched and bandaged—Dr. Price had done a good job of it. God willing, the young woman would never even have a scar.

Polly closed the door quietly and turned her attention to Finn, who was hanging off a chair and trying not to look hungry.

"What do you say, my boy? We've got Tommy home for dinner tonight. What shall it be then?"

Finn thought about it a moment and licked his lips. "What would Tommy like?"

An hour later, Polly quietly entered the sick room with a steaming plate of lamb, buttered potatoes, and spinach.

"Some dinner for you," she said softly. If it weren't for the fact that his eyes were open, Polly would have thought he was asleep—he sat so still. An incline of his head was thanks enough. She put the plate by his feet and left.

When she peered through a crack in the door an hour later, he hadn't touched the food.

* * *

Arthur Shelby came back to the family residence in good spirits. John was still out with his mates, but Arthur had decided to retire early. Although a man who liked to indulge in a drink (or ten), he was beginning to know his limits as he got older, and they were clearer to define. Midnight was a perfectly respectable time to turn in and not ruin a party. Besides, he might be able to snag some of Polly's cooking, if there were any leftovers. It was John's loss at a scrumptious meal.

He could smell the evidence of Aunt Polly's fine fare when he entered headquarters. His first stop would be the kitchen, and then his bedroom, and a (hopefully) dreamless sleep.

That night, however, Arthur never made it as far as the foyer.

Polly clambered down the stairs as if she had been waiting for him to come back. Immediately, he expected the worst. An emergency. His pulse sky-rocketed.

"Jesus, Pol!" he exclaimed. "What's the matter?"

She shushed him, probably due to Finn sleeping upstairs. "It's Tommy," she whispered.

Arthur felt sick. Kimber's place.

"What 'appened?"

She quickly related everything she knew—which wasn't much—about the situation involving Grace.

"He hasn't moved in six hours," she said, and Arthur saw the concern in the creases around her eyes. If Polly was worried, everyone should be.

Arthur didn't now how to respond at first. Tommy was known to shut himself away, but not like _this._ Not _because_ of someone.

"I'll see what's botherin' him," Arthur grumbled, mostly miffed that Tommy's usual moodiness was between him and some delicious grub.

He found Thomas right where Polly said he'd be—sitting hunched over in front of the injured girl. A beauty she was too. Long blonde hair fell down her face and spilled over the sofa. Her hands, hanging delicately off slender wrists. Arthur entered the room soundlessly, knowing that if Tommy wasn't asleep, he'd sensed Arthur already.

He stepped closer, checking that Thomas was indeed awake and gazing at the sleeping woman. He seemed lost in thought, a common look for Thomas Shelby.

"What happened?" Arthur said plainly. Best get to the crux of the problem. Faster that way. And Arthur was a man without pretense.

"Kimber attacked her," Tommy said, his voice husky from disuse. "He tried to…"

"Christ," Arthur croaked. "What a bastard."

Tommy just sat there, not acknowledging his brother.

Arthur cleared his throat. "Well, Polly says that she'll be fine. The doctor was optimistic."

Silence.

Arthur looked down and saw the plate of uneaten food, now cold. It was Tommy's favorite dish, a meal Polly only ever made on his younger brother's birthday. It was just like Thomas to avoid food when he was tense about something or other. Arthur's stomach growled on cue.

"Mind if I eat this?"

Thomas said nothing, continuing to stare at Grace.

Arthur bent down and began shoveling the food down his throat. Though cold, it was still delectable.

"Pol's worried about you."

Arthur finished off the spinach.

"How's about we go to the Garrison—join John. Have a drink with 'im?"

Arthur devoured the potatoes.

"Maybe call it a night? Lord knows I'm tired after the job we pulled today."

Arthur finished the plate and set it down with a clang. Tommy's silence was bordering on disrespect, and Arthur's impatience made him angry.

He spun Tommy around in his seat so they were facing each other. He was about to berate his younger brother, but that's when he saw Thomas's face, and the tears that threatened to spill from his eyes.

And it shocked him.

"It was… _my_ fault, Arthur. _My fault."_

Brilliant blue spheres, like snatches from the ocean, shone brightly in the dull light of the back room. Tommy's eyes were wide and full of so much sorrow that Arthur almost looked away with shame. It was so strange to see his brother, usually so cool and detached, all of a sudden so vulnerable. It made Arthur downright uncomfortable.

"Easy, mate," said Arthur, putting a hand on Tommy's arm. "It's not your fault. Kimber was the one—"

"I _gave_ her to him. And she had to obey me because…" Tommy took a shaky breath. "Because we had a deal. And…"

Tommy's eyes looked upwards, searching for strength, and his face contorted in a wild struggle to contain his emotions. Arthur watching in fascination until he thought he couldn't bare it anymore, and then Tommy just stopped. His eyes faded—serene once again, his mouth a thin line, his face pale, but devoid of emotion.

"Tommy?"

"Go away," his younger brother said.

"Tom—" Arthur began, but his brother stopped him mid-sentence, flashing to his feet and pinning Arthur back against the wall.

Arthur's breath caught in his throat when he saw the fire alight in Tommy's eyes. He had seen those embers burn many times before—flames of ire and danger.

"Leave me be, Arthur." His voice was little more than a rumble of distant thunder, but the undercurrent of electricity made the hair on the back of Arthur's neck stand up. Perhaps this is what men felt like before Thomas Shelby killed them.

Arthur had always known his younger sibling to be more intelligent than he was, but when it came to stubbornness, both of them could have been champions. The key difference was that Thomas had all the patience in the world to see his wishes carried out, whereas Arthur's fuse was shorter than a lynx's tail.

In that moment, pressed into the wall, Tommy quietly waited for his brother to relent. Arthur nodded his head eventually and untangled himself grudgingly, placing his cap back on his head since it had shifted in the scuffle.

He left Thomas hovering over the sleeping woman, like a wraith. Arthur muttered under his breath, "Must be some bird," before shuffling upstairs to bed. Tommy might have figured he won _this_ battle, but Arthur was determined to win the _war._

 **A/N:** Feedback is always appreciated. Hope you enjoyed!


	2. Chapter 2

**Until She Wakes**

 **Warning:** Reference to drug use.

 **Chapter 2**

John had fallen asleep just before reaching his bed, and the first thought that crossed his mind when Arthur shook him roughly into consciousness was: _Why does the floor have to be so cold?_

"'Ere, get off!" John mumbled, his head buzzing with hangover. "You better not be havin' me do a job, and it better not be before midday."

"It's half past ten, you lout!" Arthur said, not unkindly. "And I _have_ a job."

John moaned, reaching for a pack of cigarettes. Arthur obliged him by offering a lit match. Both of them blew smoke that created a heavy fog in the room. Outside, the weak morning light filtered in through ratty curtains. John knew that Arthur didn't approve of the way he kept his room when staying at their family's home base, but what did he expect?

"You ever going to clean this place?" Arthur grumbled.

John propped himself up in bed, head throbbing. "If that is the job you're after, I'll hire a maid right after I clobber you over the head for wakin' me up!"

The younger Shelby brother had expected his ears to receive a good boxing (at the very least) for his insubordination, but John was mildly shocked when Arthur only nodded his head, lost in thought, smoking.

This made John extremely interested, noting how quiet Arthur had gotten. He was ruminating on a serious subject indeed to not receive any admonishment for his outburst.

And then, another startling comment: "You seen Tommy lately?"

John tapped the end of his cigarette in an old teacup at his bedside table. He settled on a not-snarky response.

"Only yesterday before the job. Why?"

"He seem thin to you lately? Not sleeping?"

John scoffed at that. "None of us sleep much these days, Arthur." _Least of all the men who went to France_ , he thinks.

"Is he not eating then?"

John wanted to tell Arthur that Tommy's frequent opium indulgences most likely ate his desire for food, but Thomas had always been the skinniest one in the family.

"What is it, Arthur? Come right out and say it."

Then his oldest brother relayed the previous day and night's events—the injured girl, Tommy's admission of guilt, and his refusal to leave her side. John couldn't say he was surprised at Tommy's mood—he had always been the most sensitive one in the family as well—but he was surprised that the focus of Tommy's obsession was a woman, not a racehorse. Thomas hadn't had a proper love. Not for a long time, anyway.

"He's still there," said Arthur, stubbing out the butt of his cigarette in the same teacup John had used. "Still awake."

John rolled his eyes. "You want me to mother him and put him to bed? I'm not his nursemaid."

Arthur gripped the collar of his shirt swiftly and firmly so that John couldn't move.

"I'm askin' you to talk to him. Maybe you'll get through."

* * *

John stole Tommy's pipe on the off chance that his older brother would either get angry enough to confront him about it, or tempted enough to take it to bed. Because John knew Tommy's biggest secret first, and now that Arthur and Polly knew, it wasn't as important, but at the time it had been the closest he had ever felt to Tommy; it was the only thing they had ever shared besides a family.

They both were in love with the sweet smell, warm rush, and numbed sleep of the drowsy poppy.

John held it behind his back, partially hidden, and nearly tiptoed downstairs, into the parlor. Tommy sat, at a slight angle, in front of the blonde barmaid who turned so many a man's head at The Garrison.

John turned to check that his brother was still awake, and though his chest only rose and fell slightly, his eyes were open and unblinking. It was eerie to be in Thomas Shelby's presence sometimes. Directly behind them, the men had already begun their bookmaking for the day. John could hear the crinkle of papers and the clatter of feet, muffled laughter.

"Go away."

John jumped where he stood at his brother's voice, drawing the pipe out. It was ridiculous trying to stay cool in Tommy's vicinity, but he gave a valiant effort.

"Arthur says you should come away now. 'Ave a smoke with me upstairs?"

He had anticipated anger but was plainly surprised when Tommy shook his head tiredly, voice mild, never taking his eyes off the barmaid.

"Put the pipe back and run along."

John cleared his throat, tense. "But when will you come away?"

Tommy took a shallow breath, his shoulders quaking, voice cracking. "Not until she wakes."

"But it's time to unwind. Enjoy yourself a bit. We all 'ad a hard day…"

His brother answered with silence. John felt his hands shake when he played his last card and moved closer to where his brother sat, reaching out and touching his shoulder.

At the very least, John expected his brother to turn around, perhaps even fight him. But Tommy didn't even shrug him off. He merely said, even softer, "Leave me."

John went into the kitchen where Arthur was waiting for him, listening in. The younger sibling put the opium pipe down on the dining table and turned his palms upwards helplessly. What could John say? There had been a time when he thought Tommy's only concern was loyalty to his family and building an empire. Now, it was clear that love was taking first place.

"Must be _some bird_ ," John spat and walked away.

* * *

Grace felt something warm and soft wrapped around her. She remembered when she was a little girl and would doze beside the fire, a fuzzy dog at her feet, a doll under the crook of an arm, the sound of her mother's knitting needles clacking in time to the grandfather clock in their sitting room. It was the best way to keep clear of horizontal rain and cold each winter.

She shifted, eyes closed, and felt the stiffness in her body. Her head ached, and she couldn't quite recall where she was… Not home…

And then a hand brushed her shoulder, applying pressure.

"Don't move."

The voice was raspy and faint. Grace recognized its owner, but she couldn't place it. Her lids were heavy, and she almost succumbed to sleep once more, but then everything came rushing back, and her eyes snapped open.

She froze. Thomas Shelby hovered over her, cap obscuring his eyes. She was resting on a not uncomfortable sofa in a small living room. Through the walls she heard the sounds of people working, foot falls, and bustling movement.

 _Oh my God._

She was at the Shelbys' residence. Headquarters.

Grace attempted to sit up, but Tommy's hand pressed into her shoulder again, gentle yet firm.

"Rest," he said softly. "You hit your head."

"I remember," she said, her voice weaker than she had hoped for.

"Are you thirsty?"

Grace realized she was and nodded, although she instantly regretted the movement. It made her world tilt. Tommy put a hand on her arm to steady her.

"Stay here."

She watched him stand up and walk—a bit stiffly—to a pitcher on a nearby table. He filled a mug with liquid and brought it back. When he sat, did his figure tremble, or did Grace just imagine it?

He brought the cup to her lips, though she felt strong enough to take it, and Grace drank. The water was sweet and cool to her parched throat. Thomas took the cup away when she had finished.

"Thank you," she said.

Tommy's expression was unreadable, and it unnerved her. She felt trapped all of a sudden. Had they searched her purse and found the gun Campbell gave her? Had they discovered her true identity at last? Grace's heartbeat quickened at the thought, thudding so loudly she was afraid that Tommy would hear it.

She spoke to cover for her fear. "What time is it?"

"Afternoon."

She gasped at his response. How could she have slept so long? She had to get back to The Garrison.

"Well, I best be on my way then."

"Don't worry. I let your boss know you were 'ere. The doctor said you shouldn't work for the next few days."

Grace was grateful and actually relieved that she was expected to stay put. Her mind was still muddled, and her body felt horribly delicate. Her head was a bauble of spun glass on the verge of splitting into a million painful shards with any sudden movement. She vaguely recalled the blood cascading from her forehead, felt its ebb and flow in her temple. Grace shivered.

Almost as a reflection of her movement, Tommy shuddered too—a reflex he tried (and failed) to cover up. Although still tired, Grace studied the lines on his face and the creases under his eyes. They told a very clear tale of how Thomas Shelby had occupied himself for the past few hours.

"Have you been up all night?"

He fidgeted with a coat pocket, searching for cigarettes he had either run out of or misplaced. Even knowing him for such a short time, Grace saw smoking as another of Thomas Shelby's crutches, and a decent way to stall for time to think and respond while maintaining the coolest of facades.

"It was my mistake," he said at last, sky-blue eyes distant, voice dark. And when he looked straight at her, Grace felt pinned to the spot.

"I won't permit anything like that to happen to you again."

Grace felt as if a small, yet fiercely glowing, lamp had been set alight somewhere between her chest and her stomach, creating a warmth that spread down to her toes and towards her fingertips. And whatever it was, it was a sensation so sweet that it allowed her exhausted body to relax and sink into the truth of his words.

Without thinking, half asleep, intoxicated by the shadow of Thomas Shelby covering her body, Grace felt her hand brush his knee, a sign of forgiveness and acceptance.

And then Tommy leant forward, crystal eyes unblinking. He picked up her hand delicately and kissed it.

Grace drifted off to sleep thinking how strange it was to be falling in love with the man she was assigned to spy on and ultimately destroy.

* * *

Arthur had watched the scene through a crack in the door between the bookies and the family residence, his head spinning a bit with all he had just witnessed. If it was true that his brother was in love, then there was a piece of Arthur that felt jealous, and another part of him that exuded pride. He knew he would never be able to have a relationship after the war, but Tommy deserved it. Tommy was the one he protected because he was younger but the one he had, ironically, always looked up to because of his brains. Arthur loved his brother for many reasons, but mainly because Tommy was loyal. With his intelligence, he could have done anything with his life, but Tommy stuck by him and John and Finn. He didn't take orders.

Arthur watched Tommy stand up in front of the barmaid who was sleeping once again. He never took his eyes off her. And then Arthur watched his body sway, almost imperceptible, but it gave enough warning to Arthur.

The oldest Shelby brother dashed in, grabbing Thomas by one shoulder. Tommy looked at him in almost childlike awe, his eyes glass and sunken. Gone was his stoic expression, his unreadable mask, a mixture of concentration and apathy, melded with a sneer so cold that your face stung when you received it.

"You're all right, Tommy," Arthur assured him, patting Tommy on the back.

His younger brother blinked. "Arthur?"

"Yes?" Arthur held Tommy still, a tremor running through his body.

"You're here," he said dreamily.

 _Understatement of the century,_ Arthur thought to himself. But, truly, Tommy was beginning to scare him.

"Going to escort you upstairs so you can get some rest. By order of the Peaky Blinders." Arthur threw in a wink for good measure. Play it off like a game instead of this frightening sibling role reversal.

Thomas Shelby shook his head very slowly, as if the air was thick around them. "Can't do that."

Arthur huffed out, growing impatient. "And why not?"

"When I sleep, I'm underground," Tommy said. As he spoke, his head tilted back eerily at an angle, and his voice sounded far away, echoing across time and buried deep. "I hear voices. We're diggin', and they've coming for us, and—"

"No thoughts of that now," Arthur said, his throat suddenly dry. "Come on."

"I can't," Tommy said, but his voice was softer now, realizing he had lost this fight, even as another one continued in his nightmares.

Tommy was unsteady on his feet, so Arthur helped him shuffle along until they reached the bottom of the staircase. All of a sudden, Tommy stiffened. The sounds of men at work continued behind the double doors they were walking away from.

"Wait," Thomas said, his voice stronger. He shrugged Arthur off with newfound energy.

Arthur watched with fascination as Tommy straightened almost magically, self-possessed, and seemingly summoned all of his strength back to show his face to the men before retiring. It was a terrifying transformation to witness; Tommy even put a hand in his pocket to make it appear like he had just checked his watch before opening the doors to the bookies. Arthur smirked and chuckled to himself. Thomas (The King) Shelby: Master of Disguise and Nonchalance.

Tommy sauntered his way past the bookmakers' stations, where men filed in and out. They generally avoided his gaze, but if they did happen to look up, his face held an imperceptible annoyance. He lingered for a time over the proceedings and then headed back to the family's parlor. Arthur closed the doors and then had to scramble as his brother faltered, his knees buckling and head lolling forward in complete exhaustion.

"John!" Arthur called, holding Tommy up by his waist and shoulders.

His younger brother ran down the stairs and immediately slung one of Tommy's arms over his shoulder.

"What the—" John began, but Arthur silenced him with a grunt, placing a palm in front of Tommy's mouth, content with the steady warm breath.

"Upstairs," Arthur muttered, and the Shelby boys carried the head of their empire upstairs. He was a middle child who had taken the eldest's place, the one who always fit in and yet somehow stuck out. They all knew why, including Tommy, but none of them spoke it out loud for fear it would embarrass him.

Tommy moaned slightly as they gently carried him, one step at a time. It was testament to his own exhaustion that Tommy didn't wake, and Arthur felt protectiveness rise up in him again, that blinding drive that would make him kill for his brothers. Despite his cunning, Tommy was the most fragile of them all.

As they half-dragged, half carried him to his bedroom, Tommy's head rolled back and forth from John's to Arthur's shoulder. At last Arthur opened the door to his brother's bedroom, and the three awkwardly stepped inside.

"Slowly now," Arthur whispered, and they sat Tommy on his bed, propped upright against Arthur's chest while John unlaced his boots.

Thomas' eyes fluttered open abruptly, unfocused. "John," he said thickly, then when he noticed whose hands were around his waist: "Arthur."

"Go to sleep, brother," Arthur soothed, feeling.

"But the…accounts…" It took Tommy a supreme effort to get the words out. His right hand braced against Arthur's shoulder, as if he was going to push himself up.

"God, he's a horse," John spat.

Arthur shot him a venomous look. "We can 'andle the books for one day," he reassured Tommy.

Tommy's lips pursed, his eyes narrowing as if he was trying to remember how he got there. Lazily, his eyes swiveled to John, and he smiled a rare smile. "Must've been… some party…"

John grinned back at him, standing up and putting a hand on Tommy's shoulder. "The wildest I've ever seen. Now sleep."

Tommy did as he was told, for once, and his eyes slid close. Arthur supported his neck as they lay him on the bed and covered him with a wool blanket.

A huge burden lifted off Arthur's shoulders, and he sighed, looking down at Thomas with John. For some reason, he could really use a cup of tea. Nothing like Tommy stepping down for a day that made him want to take the reins of responsibility.

"Strange, isn't it?" John said. "How much he looks like mum."

Arthur gazed upon Tommy's face—the jet black hair and fine cheekbones were markers enough, but it was the eyes that pierced his heart every time. The same eyes that once belonged to their mother.

"Yes," he replied, a shiver running down his spine, and the two of them went back downstairs to check on the woman their brother loved and to make a strong pot of tea.

 _Fin_

 **A/N:** Thanks so much to everyone who reads and reviews this little fic! Let me know what you think.


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